


A Trick of the Light

by Ashesofthefirststar



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Deaf Character, Family Dynamics, Keith has mild seperation anxiety/abandoment issues, Lance's family - Freeform, M/M, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Soulmate skeptic Lance, Soulmate-Color Blindness, Strangers to Lovers, Unrequited Soulbond, prose style writting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashesofthefirststar/pseuds/Ashesofthefirststar
Summary: Keith is searching for color while Lance thinks that real love is the most beautiful when it's in black and white. When they meet and form an unrequited soul-bond, they learn that relationships come in every shade, from blue to gray scale, and that even destiny takes effort and time.





	A Trick of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Every soulmate story I've read always depicts Keith as the hesitant one. I get that, but in the cannon of Voltron, Keith craves connection and a sense of community probably more than any one, so I really wanted to explore that. 
> 
> At it's roots, this story is about the effort it takes to find and maintain relationships. That they take sacrifice, time, and communication. In a way, it rejects the typical soulmate narrative by stating that nothing is entitled to be yours and that you get out of relationships only what you put into them. It's not a story for everyone, but for those who chose to read it, thank you. You make all the effort worth it.

_ "What you share with the world is what it keeps of you." _

 

**xXx**

 

Lance traces the dulled, once stark black lines of a shark jaw tattoo. It's filled in with a gray scale sunset, an achromatic gradient that overlooks a half sunken fishing boat. Framing it are two vector ribbons, inscribed with his second favorite quote,  _ “I think we're going to need a bigger boat”,  _ from his all time favorite movie, Jaws. 

 

His favorite quote from the movie, and the one that he had wanted to get inked, is “ _ smile, you son of a bitch.”  _

 

His dad, however, said that it would break his mama's heart if he came home with a curse word tattooed on him. Bitch, nonetheless. So being the dutiful son that he is, Lance had settled for something else. Plus~ his dad was also paying, seeing as their matching father and son Jaw inspired tattoos were a present for his eighteenth birthday.

 

Lance wonders sometimes if their done in a true achromatic scheme or if it just looks that way to him. When the artist asked them about their preference, Lance remembers his dad giving him a shifty look before pulling the artist aside. He can't ask his dad now, and for some reason, he doesn't want to ask anyone else.

 

“So I was thinking of a blue color palette to match my eyes.” 

 

Lance's fingers pause just below the cuff of his rolled up jacket. He blinks several times, realizing that Veronica sounds just as wistful as he feels. 

 

From across the table, she admires the Mediterranean style panoramic of downtown Santa Barbara, drawing lazy circles with the tip of a singular acrylic nail.  _ Their magenta, Lance! Magenta!  _ She had raved to him, waving them around like a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

 

He wants to be agitated - and trust him, he is - at the way she ignores him to stare heavy lidded at what he presumes is the sky - He hears that it's blue - but he hasn't exactly been all present and accounted for himself. 

 

For prosperity and pride sake, he’d like to state that she started it. And not just today either. 

 

Only born three years apart, Veronica and Lance have always been close. Whenever there was trouble with the Alvarez’s, the bad kind that brought in the quiet and made everyone retreat to their own private corners of the house, one of them would crawl into the other's too cramped bed, and they'd just lay there looking up at the cottage cheese ceiling, seeing what shapes they could make from it. They'd take turns calling each other the weirdest names they could think of and argue over who was going to sneak down stairs to rummage through the snack cabinet.  _ ‘I'm older’. ‘Exactly, you’ve lived a longer, fuller life than I have.’  _

 

They communicate with garbled sound effects just as much as they do with words, plan and co-execute pranks with a military like ruthlessness, and tease each other without pause. Heck, not to long ago, Lance would've never let his hand leave the top of his drink, as Veronica had a tendency of putting crumbled up straw wrappers in them whenever he wavered in his vigilance. Both to annoy him and to show off her superior stealth abilities. 

 

Meaning, silence is not a common in their time spent together. Gossip, tomfoolery, angry security guards? Yes. Silence? Not so much. And if silence does ensue, it's always a communal silence, shared over only the most imperative moments, like during the intense  _ I'll-kill-you-if-you-make-me-miss-anything _ episodes of Project Runway, or like, when someone says something dumb, and they're  desperate to comment on it but can't - because Regina Alvarez didn't raise rude children, thank you very much - so their eyes just meet in a mutual judgment instead. Those sorta things.

 

Lately, though, they've been having these ten miles of separation type silences. These sitting next to each other, but they're in total different zip codes type silences. Lately, as in ever since they literally started seeing life in two different perspectives. Ever since color came between them.

Lance takes a long, noisy drag of his bubble tea.

 

“Why not just rainbow everything? You wouldn't want to be color exclusionary.” 

 

“It's a wedding, Lance, not a gay pride parade.” 

 

As if just processing what she had said, Veronica whips her head up, squinting at him with eyes that everyone says she got from their dad. Everyone's right.  

 

“You're teasing me.” 

 

It's hardly a question. More like a conclusion to an inspection she would've never had to make before. Before, she would've heard judgment in the slurping of his straw, seen it in the slant of his eyes. Lance hates that she second guesses them now. Hates that there are question marks when they made the answer key together.

 

“If I ever skip out on a chance to tease you, know that I've most likely been kidnapped and replaced by a charmless android version of me.” 

Her lips twitch into a smaller version of Lance's own smirk. She taps her temple twice and recites, “Scenario Terminator: if one of us is replaced by an evil android, use soda to short-circuit their wiring and bury them in the backyard. Said person, if they survive, gets to keep the others stuff.” Lance opens his mouth to make an amendment, but stops when Veronica lifts a finger. “With the exception of Lance's  _ impressive  _ rock collection. That will be donated to science.” 

 

A flash of rolling credits and a devoured bowl of popcorn brings with it something giddy and familiar. A time where an “adult movie” meant anything with a PG-13 rating. A time where Lance thought random snake pits and woodland thieves were going to be a much bigger issue in adulthood than they are turning out to be. Lance remembers leaping up the stairs three at a time while he tongued popcorn kernels from between the gaps in his molars. He remembers barreling through Veronica’s door and pouncing onto her bed to bounce up and down. He remembers describing the revolutionary experience of watching Terminator for the first time. His head had been astir with wonder and hypotheticals. 

 

Finally, he had landed on,  _ “But if androids are all evil… What if they steal my face?! What if they steal my face and send me to the future and try to hurt mama?!”  _ Collected, filled with her superior ten year old wisdom, Veronica said, _ “Easy, I'll mess up their insides with root beer.  _

 

The memory makes something stretched and elastic between them pop back into place. He reminds myself that as much as he doesn't like change, he can deal with it, as long as it always comes back to this. He has always been an adaptable guy, after all.

 

“You know, we came up with Scenario Terminator when I was six. We should probably revamp the details to reflect our character growth.” 

 

“We can donate the rocks  _ and _ the android to science.” 

 

“And we’ll give each other's stuff to charity,” Lance says with a snap of his fingers. “We’ll be heros and philanthropist. Imagine the news articles. Imagine the hashtags.” 

 

Veronica laughs, her whole body jerking with the sound. “Only you would take on an evil android from the future just for the Vine.” 

 

“I can't do anything for the Vine _anymore_.” He  feigns irritation, flicking a crumpled napkin towards her. “Have respect for the dead, Vee.”

 

Vee rolls her eyes, stopping at the window, and Lance thinks that maybe he's lost her again to the clay red of Santa Ynez summit, hazy against the light of the golden hour, or to the candy colored flowers that bloom from branchlets of orange barked Coral Trees. 

 

(He can't see color, but with how much Veronica talks about it, he  _ knows _ them by name and location, rather he wants to or not) 

 

But then her shoulders jut out as the rest of her leans into the booth, like she's trying to imitate a sink hole. 

 

“I'm doing it again, aren't I? That thing where I rub my soulbond into other people's faces by pointing out every color I see?” 

 

And Lance feels bad, because he gets it, but not really. It's not a big deal, except it kinda is. Things have changed, but it's not anyone's fault. 

 

It reminds him of how his mom would say that sometimes people just drift apart. They choose separate paths, each so different than the other that they never intertwin. 

 

But Lance likes to think that drifting is a choice. Because sure, you can pick your own path, but what's to stop you from occasionally  stepping off of it and into neutral territory? Paths aren't lines at an amusement park, you won't lose your spot if you got out of yours for a moment.

 

That's how it is with Veronica now. She sees the world through Roygbiv lenses. She has a whole perspective on life that Lance doesn't. One he will never ask her to give up. Yeah, being on separate sides of that great color divide has made things a little difficult, a little awkward, but what matters is that they still choose to bridge it. 

 

Because Lance knows what it's like when color becomes an ultimatum. He knows that rather you passively drift out of someone's life or deliberately swim away from it, leaving is a choice, one people make for the sake of color all the time.

 

“Yeah, you kinda were, but it's not like you mean to.” He leans deeper into the booth, shrugging a shoulder. “Besides, I'd be the same way if I were in your shoes. Any one would.” 

 

What happens after someone meets their soulmate is called  _ immersive colorization _ . Its an intense process with a long adjustment period. The whole thing reminds Lance of those YouTube videos of post op cochlear implant patience sobbing as they hear for the first time. Only instead of six minutes, the whole thing could last up to six months.

 

Veronica tugs at her ear - A nervous tick.

 

“I once read that only four out of every ten people aren't achromatic. If that's the case, maybe I should do a black and white color scheme.” 

 

Lance smiles faintly. That's Vee for you. She came off as a premedonia - and yeah, she totally is. A certified wannabe valley girl who would sooner miss a meal than miss her weekly eyebrow threading - she'll say that they're the same in that way, and that at least she owns up to it, but, um, false. Lance is a paradigm of humbleness. Only, despite what cliches will have you believe - and according to Pidge’s daily rants, internalized misogyny - hyper femininity doesn't negate compassion or spawn vapidness. Veronica has always been conscious of how the decisions she makes affects others, even when she shouldn't have to be.

 

“It's not for everyone else, Vee. It's for you.” Lance wiggles his eyebrows, and Veronica gives him a look that says she already knows where this is going. “Personally, I don't care what you wear. Not as long as there's an open bar and a lot of beautiful ladies to mingle with.” 

 

“Okay, first off,” Veronica says, holding up a perfectly manicured finger. “You're twenty one years old and your  _ flirting _ still sounds like the dialogue of a bad Austin Powers movie.Secondly, as much as I'd love to see you get drunk and dance the Carlton at my wedding, that's not going to win you any numbers.” 

 

“ _First off_ ,” he says, his voice a nasally parody of her own. “There's no such thing as a bad Austin Powers movie. Powers is a suave  gentleman that appreciates both a woman's beauty and her boundaries. Don't insult my hero. Secondly,” He pauses his long winded sentence to take a breath. “You're right Vee. When the ladies get an eyeful of these new moves I've been working on, it won't be numbers that I'm winning, but hearts.” 

 

She snorts around her straw, causing her tea to almost bubble over it’s rim. “There's only one heart you'd win over with your dancing, Lance, and that's you're soulmates.”

 

Veronica might realize her mistake before even Lance does. Heck, Lance might not have registered it at all if not for the way she makes a show out of freezing up - Alvarez's have never been known for their subtly. 

 

But it does register, a low boil, heaviest in the parts of him that are still grieving what color took, in the parts of him that still remembers what it felt like to map out his own constellations from the freckles that gathered like star clusters on  _ her _ cheeks.

 

He took astronomy as a high school elective, learned that the celestial spear was imaginary, just a theoretical perimeter around the earth, not inherit with meaning but given it. And Lance thought, if a bunch of old dead white guys could do it, so could he. He'd create his own constellations. He'd fill them with parts of  _ her _ , a meaning he chose.

 

“Lance, I didn't mean- I was-”

 

“You were joking. It's no big deal Vee.” 

 

“Yeah, Lance, I was, but-" She sighs, the loaded kind that lingers in your ear after it's  gone and is always followed by a silence. Finally, she says, “Look, I know that no one buys into mom and dad's love story like you do-" 

 

“It's a great story,” he sniffs.

 

“ _ But _ , what actually happens if you met your soulmate?”

 

He blinks, mouth garbling around words that won't form. He's never actually considered that. It hasn't been too long since the break up, and back then, the answer would have been simple. He would have walked away from colors a million times over if it meant a life walking beside her. Obviously, the sentiment wasn't returned. 

 

“Ugh, it's- It's like dropping acid! All the chemicals make you feel like you're one soul and all that junk, but the next thing you know, you're waking up caked in body paint and handcuffed to a tree.”

 

Silence. 

 

“You, Lance Alvarez, the boy who breaks out into regular renditions of the Blues Clues theme song, has dropped acid?” 

 

“It was one time at a music festival!” Lance shrills. When a couple across the restaurant pin him with a strange look, Lance slouches down into the booth and lowers his voice.  “Don't tell mom.” 

 

“Lance,” She says with a sigh. “We both know what this soulmate vendetta you have is really about.” 

 

Lance has never been the type to hide his feelings, but an adolescents worth of babysitting his younger cousins and having to navigate the ensemble of clashing personalities that is his family made him a naturally patient person. He can be petulant and defensive, but it's not easy to anger him. Only no one knows where Lance's buttons are better than Veronica. Or maybe it's that no one is as willing to push them as much as her, but whenever she does, it always leaves a bruise. 

 

“My problem with soul-bonds is that they just convince you that their real when they're not. Real connections are built! Ya know, from awkward confessions and nervous first dates and sweaty palms, and- and- it's a process! One where you actually get to fall in love. But that's not how it is with soulmates! You just meet them, and then bam! That's it, you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with them? 

 

Lance doesn't even realize he's getting heated again until he's practically leaning across the table. But Lance gets like this sometimes when he's upset. He won't shut up until his points been made.

 

“I mean, no one even knows what causes immersive colorization. Some dude two hundred years ago was like, hey, maybe it's a soulmate thing, and everyone else was like, yeah, what a logical and not at all far fetched idea. Let's base our entire lives around It for the rest of eternity! That's insane!”

 

Lance flops back into his seat, crossing his arms and muttering not-so-under his breath. He doesn't notice how silent Veronica is until, with a practiced apathy, she says,  “So what me and Simon have, that's not real?” 

 

Lance's eyes widen. 

 

“God no, Vee- Thats-"

 

“Because that sounds like what you’re saying Leonardo.” 

 

“ _ It's not.  _ Cheese Vee, it's just, you two- You- Oh, oh, so you're not even going to listen to what I have to say?”

 

Veronica picks up her purse and stands. She lays a palm flat against the table top and leans into Lance's space. “Tell it to the Uber driver who'll be taking you home. I have to get back to my make believe fiance.”

 

Lance stands, arms extended to either side as Veronica storms towards the the door. “Oh come on, don't go! We forgive each other. It's what we do. Like that time I got a ringworm because you dared me to drink out of a puddle. Remember? I forgave you! Come on, Veeeeeee, don't- And she's gone.”

 

Lance slumps into the booth, but not before catching the glare of a middle aged lady with one of those “can I speak to your manager” haircut. 

 

“Yeah, keep gawking Barbra, because I'm sure your families all rainbows and unicorn farts.” 

 

The woman huffs in disbelief, but goes back to her meal. Lance holds his glare for a second longer as if daring her to look back. When he's certain she won't, he muffles a groan with his hands. 

 

Lance already knows he’ll apologize - Because he always breaks first - and by Wednesday, they'll be lounging on her couch, marinating in a facemask while they pass a bag of Doritos back and forth. 

 

But Lance isn't ready to say what he knows  she isn't ready to hear. Besides, she knows he's not sorry, not really. She knows he doesn't agree with her and Simon getting married - at least, not yet anyway. 

 

He doesn't dislike the guy. How can he when he's only met him about three times? He's just not thrilled about the fact that they got engaged after a month of knowing each other. A month! He spent three times that long deciding on what tattoo he wanted to get with his dad. His favorite song changes about every two weeks! So how can Veronica, or anyone for that matter, decide that they want to spend their entire lives with a person they've only known for one month? 

Soulmates. Because what's wrong with you if you're not magically in love and ready to elope with the one person the universe says is your happily ever after? 

 

And this is coming from a guy who loves love. Lance loves it so much that he respects it. He's had it. He's felt it. He's held It in his hands. And it's one of the most beautiful things he ever-

 

Ugh- it just- Lance likes Simon good enough, alright. Obviously, Veronica feels the same, but just like color isn't actually there, just reflected light only real when detected by your eyes, neither is the instantaneous love you feel for your soulmate. 

 

And maybe it's just Lance, but he thinks real love is more than just a trick of the light.

 

**xXx**

 

Keith hears Shiro before he sees him. He wasn't even standing in the kitchen yet when Shiro says, “Keith, tuck your shirt in!”

 

Still holding the employees only door open with one hand, he spots Shiro, his best friend and manger dicing vegetables at a stainless steel counter top.

 

“Can I get through the door first before you start in on me about dress code?” he says, knowing Shiro can't hear him. 

 

Shiro says they're like brother, and they are, but Keith never lets that lean too much towards sibling banter. He's known Pidge and Matt long enough to see the way those harmless “spats” can turn into something less playful and more vicious. It might seem dumb, and it probably is, but he's always been a little jealous at how carelessly they can talk to each other, how certain they are in the strength of their relationship.

 

He places his bag on a chair next to the door before tucking in his shirt. There's still a little bit of time before his shift starts, so he leans arms crossed against the counter beside Shiro and waits.

 

“What happened to the iron I gave you?” 

 

Keith tilts his head to see Shiro side eyeing him in dissatisfaction. It's no big deal, Keith tells himself. It's just Shiro being Shiro, but that doesn't stop Keith from smoothing a hand over the folds of his shirt, as if he can shave away any and all visible imperfections.

 

“Nothing happen to it. It's safe, sitting exactly where you left it.”

 

Shiro glares. Keith glares back. This is a thing they do. 

 

Keith breaks away with a sigh and glares at the wrinkles of his one and only dress shirt. It begins to feel like a visual representation of his every inadequacy.

 

He clenches his right hand and rotates it clockwise atop his chest.  _ ‘Sorry, I didn't even think about it _ .’ 

 

After a server quit without notice, Shiro called Keith - a line cook - and asked if he would work front of the house. Begged, actually. Not that begging was necessary, seeing as Shiro is the one person Keith can't easily say no to. He guesses maybe, hopefully, Shiro hasn't realized that yet. 

 

He's especially vulnerable, however, when It comes to the restaurant. 

 

Eight Eight Six is a nichey, sorta hole in the wall Taiwanese bistro who's reasonable prices didn't fit it's upscale location. Shiro use to serve here during high school. The old owners were family friends, and back then, it made him decent money. 

 

Years and one life altering disability later, the owners were looking to sell and Shiro was looking for  _ something _ . Back then Keith had been cynical about his decision. He was selfishly upset and still clueless on what it actually meant to support someone.  _ This isn't a Hallmark movie, _ Keith had said after Shiro expressed that the timing had been a “sign”.  _ Sentimentality isn't a substitute for a business degree.  _

 

Later Shiro would explain to Keith that puting everything you have into something was a life affirming experience. He would say that spending time on things that could get better helped him to not obsess over the things that couldn't. 

 

Half of the decor was made from refurbished trash, the lighting had a tendency of glitching, and the ceiling was patchy with water spots. But, as many problems as it had, Shiro saw only potential. Just like he sees only potential in Keith.

 

Shiro’s shoulders relax under the comfort of a language he knows well. He can read lips, but only if the person knows to enunciate their words, hence why he doesn't work the front.  

 

Shiro puts the fingers of both hands against his lips and moves them downwards and flat. The double hand sign showing an extreme gratefulness that Keith doesn't feel deserving of. 

 

_ ‘Sorry, just a little stressed. I know this is out of your comfort zone, so I really appreciate it. Thank you.’  _

 

_ ‘Really Shiro, it's no problem. Just don't be surprised if I somehow manage to ruin your business.’  _

 

Shiro chuckles, signing, _ ‘You're not as bad with people as you think you are. Come on, let's see that customer service smile.’  _

 

Keith glares at Shiro pointedly. Shiro glares back. Keith wonders how much time he spends dissolved in staring competitions he will inevitably loose. 

 

His lips curl up, exposing his teeth in a purposefully jagged way. Keith has to hold back a laugh when Shiro blinks several times and-  _ ‘Yeah, wow, let's not do that. Don't want to scare the customers away.’  _

 

Keith scoffs, grabbing a freshly sliced cherry tomato off the cutting board and throwing it in his mouth. “My pleasure,” he mocks, shaping the words so that each syllable pops

 

Shiro smiles at him indulgently.

 

_ ‘It's not all bad. Being around more people means a better chance at meeting your soulmate.’  _

 

Keith swallows. Two of his fingers start rubbing nervous little circles against each other.  _ ‘Yeah _ ,’ he signs.  _ ‘Maybe.’  _

 

Whenever he thinks about his soulmate, he's  reminded of summer nights spent looking through a telescope on the beaches of Savannah Georgia. 

 

He remembers the heat of the city being the kind that had its own scent: honeysuckle and sweat. Living in it was like living in Chatham Counties cheek, being constantly deluged by everything that Georgia was, the smog of coal plants and diesel ran cargo ships, the sound of hooves on cobblestone, and the draping of Spanish moss you were never supposed to touch.

 

Keith wishes he could say that he remembers good things about Savannah, but all he can recall is feeling displaced and just barely connected. Almost as if he was a piece in one of those collages they'd make them create in his elementary school art class. A magazine clipping with furled edges, Elmor glued against a Georgia backdrop. 

 

It was a feeling that eight year old him couldn't articulate, so he would complain about the heat and the way the cicadas buzzing would rise into a screech comparable to the auto feedback of one of his dad's guitar amps. 

 

But somehow, Keith's dad understood something about him that even he didn't, because on those nights, he would take Keith to the beach where the tides haroled in strong winds and a wall of sound that neither the cicadas or heat could get through. 

 

He would tell Keith in that sprawling drawl of his that we were all connected by the stars. That they made us. That they were inside of us. He would tell Keith that the universe was vast and unimaginably hard to navigate, and when he got lost, that instead of looking up, he should look straight ahead. 

 

“ _ Men use to look to the stars to guide them home, Keith,” _ he would explain. “ _ We have compasses for that now, but sometimes you still feel lost, just in a different way. That's why we need people. Because each one of them is their own star. Their our connection to the universe. Without them, we're lost.” _

 

Those little insights probably would have been forgotten if Keith's dad hadn't of wrote them all down in a journal, one of the few things Keith got to keep when he died. 

 

There, on those night, Keith had no borders. He was one part of a continuum, a patch in the universes tapestry. There was no failure to blend, no sticky peeled edges. He wished he could of taken that feeling with him, but all he took was the expectation of it. 

 

He’s built a life for himself. It's nearly blank and rubbed raw with eraser marks but it's 

his. And Keith wants to fill it, because if his dad was right and people are like stars, Shiro, Allura, and Pidge are the only three in his sky, and most of the time, they're too far away to see. 

 

It's not their fault. It’s his. Keith’s a red dwarf. No gravity, no pull. It takes everything he doesn't have to connect with the people around him. That doesn't mean he doesn't want to though. He does, and he tries, but it was almost always the same. He'd be eight years old again, all curled edges and cheap glue, trying to fit into a space he so obviously doesn't belong. 

 

Keith doesn't know why he's like that. He wishes he could be more like Shiro or Allura, or hell, even Pidge, but he can't. That's the point though, he's different, just like stars were different. He's dimmer. Has less light to burn. 

 

But the universe cultivated those summer nights, took their certainty and stillness and preserved them in a person just for Keith. A person who wouldn't care that he doesn't always get the words right if he can even find them all. A shelter, a place of rest, a sense of belonging is out there waiting for him. His North star. 

 

He just has to find them.

 

“Hey kid.” 

 

Keith looks up to see Rolo’s trademark smirk, draped leisurely like a jacket thrown across an armchair at the end of a long day. His hair is wiry from prolong saltwater exposure and his patch of stubble only adds to his whole “look", the effortlessly disheveled one that shouldn't be as attractive as it is.

 

Shiro has a tendency of hiring unfavorable people. People who can't get jobs elsewhere, not because of their character but because of their past. Hence Rolo’s and Keith's employment, who ironically, knew each other before they started here. Not that Shiro needs to know that. 

 

They’d been in the same circle of “car enthusiast” a couple of years back. Rolo flipped classics and hung around the races, selling parts for criminally low prices. While Keith had just liked driving fast in places he shouldn't have been driving at all. 

 

He still flips cars. He’s even gotten Keith into it - he won't be able to live off of his dad's dwindling life insurance money and gratuity forever. His work ethic is solid and his laid back charm attracts several regulars. Overall, he's a good guy. That doesn't stop Keith from keeping an eye on him though. He knows his kind because he knows himself. There might be camaraderie amongst criminals, but there certainly isn't trust. 

 

Rolo digs the order pad out of his pocket and hands it over to Keith. He presses the fingers of his opposite hand into his closed eyes, groaning under the pressure.

 

Keith takes the pad. “Busy day?” 

 

“Opposite,” he says, undoing the top button of his dress shirt. “You’d be surprised how much energy boredom takes out of you. Another day like this and you might come back to fully functional lights.”

 

Keith casually flips through the order pad. He likes to estimate how much they made in a shift by tallying how many tickets are gone. Thats technically Shiro's job, but Keith knows he isn't always forthright about Eight Eight Six’s financial situation.

 

“Or more likely a fire.” 

 

“I am a mechanic, you know.” 

 

Keith smirks, sliding the order pad into his front pocket. “Yeah, and I'm sure that'll come in handy whenever the restaurant starts gathering its energy from a car engine.” 

 

Rolo chuckles, shoving Keith's head to the side with an open palm. Sorta like how Shiro would sometimes purposely pat him on the shoulder with unnecessary, be it playful, force. 

 

Keith thinks it's nice having affable conversation with someone. Some people take that for granted, because It's easy for them, but for Keith, it's a win, and the following satisfaction he feels, a participation trophy. As if to say, look at you, managing the bare minimum!

 

Whatever. His cynicism can go fuck itself. Because even if him and normal socialization are dependent on a tentative balance of circumstances - like who he's talking to, or where they're talking at, or if he remembered to eat breakfast that morning - in those moments, he feels the space between him and everyone else get a little bit smaller.

 

“Anyway, all the tables are clear but one.” Rolo’s cradling a motorcycle helmet under one arm. The way he’s angled towards the door tells Keith he's ready to leave. “When I went to give them their the ticket, they were fighting. Something about soulmates, I think,” he says, shrugging a shoulder.

 

Keith perks a brow. “And?” 

 

“You’ve heard the saying,” Rolo explains. “Don’t get in the middle of a dog fight.” 

 

“Yeah, but they're not dogs. Just customers. They might eat like them, but-” Keith cuts himself off with a shrug. “They're nothing to be scared of.”

 

Rolo’s laugh comes out more like a shout, sudden and curt, and once again, Keith feels like he's the punchline for a joke he didn't even remember setting up. 

 

“Dude, I've said it before, but if you're looking to replace that racing high with something else, you should come to Hooligans. You'd be right at home in a mosh pit.” His grin intensifies, leveling out somewhere between friendly and fond. “You're not scared of anything, huh?” 

 

Scared? 

 

Only of the things that matter.

 

And the fall out of whatever argument Keith might interrupt between two customers certainly doesn't. Or maybe it does. Not knowing is why Keith doesn't work the front of the house. 

 

In a  _ shocking _ turn of events, Keith isn't sure how to respond to that, so he says, “I'll see you tomorrow.” 

 

Rolo’s smile eases off some. “I'll be there.” He turns to look at Shiro - who left and then magically manifested back at Keith's side with a burrito bowl - and sloppily signs  _ ‘See you, man _ .’ 

 

Shiro signs back a thank you and then Rolo’s gone. The metal door shuts behind him, it's screeching drag seeming to emphasizes how utterly turned around Keith feels. 

 

Keith tilts his chin to see Shiro giving him a Look. He glares at Shiro. Shiro glares at Keith, and- Nope, not doing this. 

 

Keith hunches his shoulders and juttes his head out. His face scrunches in question as his palms-up, chest leveled hands slid back and forth.  _ ‘What?’ _

 

_ ‘He was asking you to hangout.’  _

 

Keith looks at the door Rolo just existed through and then back at Shiro.  _ ‘Wait… Really?’ _

 

Shiro hums, nodding his head. 

 

_ ‘As in…’  _ Keith's nose scrunches  _ ‘...A date?’ _

 

Keith's stomach tightens from the prospect. It's not as if he's innocent. He's had flings in the past, numbers in his phone that he had called more often than others whenever the wait for his soulmate became too lonely to do on how own, but the idea of actually dating someone else feels unnatural, the ultimate sense of not belonging. 

 

Shiro would argue that not everyone will met their soulmate, and he's right. The universe matches you with a perfect person, but you have to put in the leg work, and like everything else in the world, effort isn't always enough.

 

Keith tries not to think about how the one thing he puts the most effort into is the one thing he's the worst at.

 

_ ‘I can't say for sure, but I'm pretty sure his intentions were purely friendly.’  _

 

Had it been obvious? Probably. This wouldn't be the first possible connection lost to the cracks in Keith’s disposition.

 

He kneads his knuckles against his thigh and tries to ignore the pitying slant of Shiro's gaze. He always does this. It's one of his talents. Effortless alienation. 

 

No one loses momentum quite like Keith does. 

_ “I'm going to go check on that table.’  _

 

Keith walks through a pair of swinging wooden doors and into the carpeted dining area. A small open space that you can see in full no matter what vantage point you're standing at. It's a darker gray than usual - meaning  overcast - with streams of white emitting from the light fixtures that hang above every table. 

 

In a back corner booth, a man sits with his head tucked into the nook of his arms, one barren glass by his elbow and another half empty one sitting too close to the edge of the table for Keith's liking. 

 

Keith rips the man's check from it's pad before weaving around tables towards the one occupied booth. Keith wonders if he's fallen asleep. Unlike Rolo or Shiro, he's not tolerant towards that sorta thing. Maybe it makes him  cold to run off the occasional sleeping customer - Rolo says it make him seem like a Donald Trump supporter, which is honestly one of the meanest things someone has ever said to him - but it's bad for business, and Shiro  _ really _ needs the business.

 

Besides, from the texture of his clothes, it looks like he's wearing fitted rolled up khakis and a denim jacket. Not to mention he's here drinking overpriced bubble tea. Meaning mister Abercrombie and Fitch definitely isn't  lacking financially and probably has somewhere more comfortable to sleep that isn't a lacquered tabletop.

 

“You can't sleep here… Sir,” He adds after a beat, remembering that, for tonight at least, he has to be exceedingly polite. The honorific comes out terse, feeling undeserved. Not that Keith is some James Dean Cliche. He doesn't  have a problem addressing someone respectfully if the situation deemes it, but calling customers sir or ma’am, especially ones as close in age to himself as this guy, always makes Keith feel fake and plastic. It's one of those unnecessary formalities that only old people care about, like not wearing your hat inside a building or being judged on how frequently you cut your lawn.

 

To the man's credit, he doesn't hesitate to sit up. He rubs his eyes and says, “S’not sleeping.” Although the groggy haul of his voice says otherwise. “Just resting my eyes while waiting for the check.” 

 

If there's an accusation there, Keith doesn't  find one. Not that he doesn't try. There was something about working with customers that keeps Keith's tongue sharpened in anticipation. 

 

The man doesn't look at him. Instead, he blinks in rapid sessions, like the burst mode of a camera lense, while shoving a hand into his jacket pocket. “How much do I owe you?” he asks, pulling out- was that a Deadpool wallet? 

 

“Nine forty five.” 

 

As he opens up his wallet, Keith slid the glasses side by side and pinches the rims between two fingers, leaving him a free hand. He turns back to see the man looking up at him with a small yet sincere smile and the check extended in offering.

 

“Keep the change.”

 

They tell you immersive colorization hurts. They tell you that an innumerable amount of never before used proton receptors are stimulated by the sight of your soulmate. That you'll be vulnerable to the unforeseen assault that is color, and instinctively, like a newborn baby, your eyes will shut. 

 

They tell you that the color doesn't knock. Just like with meeting your soulmate, it slips through the back door of your life. First it's not there and then it is. Sudden and transformative. 

 

The world twist like a kaleidoscope. Monochrome turns into color. Keith feels glass slipping from the squeeze of his fingers. 

 

“What the cheese!?” 

 

Then everything speeds up, like there are fifty open tabs in Keith’s mind and there loading all at once.

 

The man is standing up now, his seat and pants soaked with bubble tea. 

 

“Fuck, I'm-I’m-" Keith's scrambling. He takes all the napkins from their dispensary in one vicious yank. “I'm so sorry.”

 

He thinks about wiping the man's khakis off himself, but thankfully, some sense of self preservation kicks in. Looking towards the ground, he holds the napkins out, pressing the palm of his other hand into the juncture between his eyes and his nose. 

 

“Um, thanks,” comes the hesitant reply. 

 

When Keith finally feels the napkins being removed from his hand, he dips down to pick up the glasses. The pain behind his eyes causes him to wobble onto his knees. He grunts through it, but as he go to pick up the glass, a hand lands on his. He tracks it up, following the fold of a jacket and the line of a neck, landing on a pair of full, downturned lips. 

 

“Hey man, are you okay?”

 

No, he's not, because he feels like an idiot, kneeling in a mess of polyester, as if some spilt bubble tea is a priority. Why is he distracted by trivial bull shit like bus boy duties, or pain, or color when  _ he's  _ here? Keith's soul mate. 

 

Keith wants to view him in the way your suppose to view a painting. Fom a step back. Keith wants to take in his entirety, but his hand is on Keith’s, and as embarrassing as it is, he's always been like a lost child in that way. Once he finds a hand willing to hold his own, he doesn't easily let go.

 

So Keith admires him from beneath the muted hues of colors he doesn't have a name for, and he's-

 

“Beautiful-" Keith mutters

 

It slips in the careless way words do when said to someone with certainty. That thoughtless sorta filter-less comfort that comes from belonging, that endures, something Keith's only ever had with his dad. 

 

Because this is his soulmate. 

 

Keith thinks he's blushing. He's never seen a blush before, but the color it brings to his cheeks is brisk and makes Keith want to experience every new one against the backdrop of his skin. Then his hand is moving from Keith's to rub against his own bicep. His eyes are shifty and his smile almost bashful. He's embarrassed. Because of Keith. He doesn't think he's ever made anyone feel like that and he can't help but to be proud of himself. 

 

“I know my beauty's disarming,” he says, wearing a confident smile that gives him a whole new dimension. “But I've never brought someone to their knees before.”

This is Keith's soulmate. He's nice and says things like what the cheese. He tips his server and wears khakis. He's blushy and likes bubble tea. He touches people easily. He's a bit cocky, and his eyes-

 

Keith waves a hand in front of his own. “The color…” 

 

His soulmate frowns, and Keith frown with him. Then something like realization phases over his face. 

 

“Ohhhh~ You must've recently met your soulmate. My sister still gets color surges too, says they hurt so bad they can knock a person to their knees.” He chuckles a bit, his smile settling into something purely friendly and unaware. “I guess she was right, huh?”

 

Unlike the colors, or meeting his soulmate, the understanding that comes next is gradual. It's the accumulation of cues that he'll only really recognize in his obsessive re-living of this moment. Comprehension strikes him right in the sternum, so heavy he feels as if he’ll never be able to lift his arms towards the stars again.

 

**xXx**

 

When Keith was younger, nine or ten, he's not sure, but it doesn't matter, one of his foster homes was tucked deep in the furthest corner of their property. Sprawling acres, claustrophobic with rust and ivy, surrounded the house like a moat of broken down farm equipment and pulled apart cars.

 

Sometimes it felt like they were hiding from something, but hiding implies that someone was looking for them. Keith can't remember their names, but he knows they weren't the type to be looked for. They weren't evil people, just barely there people. Neglectful people. He remembers the wife of the house and how she would sit in one place for so long that it almost felt as if she was afraid to move, as if she was scared of what the world might do to her if it realized she was still there.

 

As long as their monthly check came, they didn't care what he did. So like what Keith  thinks any ten year old would do, he explored. He made it his goal to go further into the junkyard each day, to plunder through every car that fortified the barrier between them and the rest of the world.

 

It was a place where things that were left behind went to stay. Maybe that was why he felt so rooted there, as if he was right where he belonged. Or maybe it was because of how invested he was in the things that were left behind. He'd spend hours sifting through the contents of abandoned glove compartments. Everything he found, yo-yo’s, moldy gum, wallet sized  photographs, a shard of glass shaped like a T-rex, he'd stash behind a row of flower pots, each overflowing with uncropped plants that curled in decay. Without realizing it, he was learning that worth was subjective.

 

Years later, Shiro will remind him of this. Keith will ask him why he's buying a hopeless business. Shiro will look at him with a smile and sign,  _ one man's trash is another man's treasure.  _ On Keith's worst days, he's think about getting a tattoo of a tangled up yo-yo so he never forgets about that again.

 

One night, he went too far and he couldn't find his way back, and just like that, the isolation that once felt like freedom wrapped around him like the ivy wrapped around the cars. The darker it got the more scared he became. He felt as if the junkyard was after him. That if he stopped running the veins would sprout from his chest and stitch him to the ground in between the pick up trucks and the scrap metal. 

 

It was another lesson he wouldn't understand until hindsight. While he likes holding on to left behind things, he doesn't want to be left behind himself. He guesses no one really does, except maybe the people who owned that land, but Keith doesn't want to be like them either. Being alone is nice, until it's no longer a choice.

 

It wouldn't be until he saw porch lights that he realized how badly he had pierced himself on a piece of farm equipment. At the time, it had just felt like a minor cut.

 

Later, when a nurse is stitching him up, she’ll tell him how lucky he is. She'll say adrenalin saved his life. That it allowed him the time and clarity to get help. That it was his bodies way of protecting him. 

 

Keith was so scared of being by himself that he was almost impaled by farm equipment. Ironically, it was him that saved himself. No one else.

 

This story will become one of the first real conversations Keith's has with Shiro in ASL. He has never told anyone else, never had a reason too, but somehow, in the uncertainty of a new language, it fits. 

 

Shiro will blame my guardians. He will sign, _if_ _they cared, you wouldn't have been so afraid of being alone. You would've trusted them to find you._ Keith will sign back, _but they didn't_.

 

That's the reality of Keith's situation. He was alone way before that junkyard and he would stay alone for years after. It was never a choice for him. In fact, there were days where it felt less like a state of being and more like a destiny. 

 

Sometimes it still does.

  
  
  


**xXx**

  
  


Keith's nine or ten years old again. He doesn't feel the pain until he's stumbling into fluorescent lights. When he sees Shiro spot cleaning the industrial stoves, something like cough syrup coats his throat, a bitterness he hasn't tasted since childhood and yet he instantly recognizes; Betrayal. 

 

It's unfair, has no place here, but Shiro is the reason Keith hasn't given up on attachment. If Keith hadn't met Shiro, he wouldn't be here right now. He would still be colorblind. Keith never thought he'd see that as a good thing.

 

Keith, in his determined desire to form bonds, is constantly fighting against the feeling that he is wasting his time. With his friendships, he reminds himself of the ways he can ruin them, that he is always one mistake away from being alone. He thinks that he will always be only one step away. That he is never gaining any ground.

 

But his soul mate, they are suppose to be the exception, right? They are supposed to be the one person who stands on the same ground as him.

 

So he ran, thinking the only pain that could come from a soul-bond is one never found. He ran, thinking that when he got to them, he wouldn't have to run anymore. 

 

Now the adrenaline's gone and he's bleeding out right on Shiro's front porch, both unfairly angry while simultaneously hoping he’ll know what to do.

 

But it's too bright. Keith's head is heavy with numbness. The pain screams behind his eyes, echoing down his spin. His gut shakes from the violence of it. 

 

Keith presses his palms into his closed eyes, but some of the light seeps through, orbs of unfamiliar color bursting in tandem behind his eyelids like a series of tiny explosions.  Blindly, he paws at the wall, searching for a light switch. 

 

Before Keith can find it, he feels someone gripping his forearms. “Keith,” he hears Shiro say, “What's wrong?”

 

Keith’s eyelids separate slowly and with a force, as if he's prying open an elevator shaft. Shiro is a blurry vision of untamed light, and Keith barely manages to hold up a hand in front of his chin and flutter his fingers.  _ ‘Colors’.  _

 

_ ‘Colors?’ Keith, are you saying-’  _ There's no concrete sign for soulmate, so Shiro makes his own. Something that roughly translates into hearts connected by color. Which is so funny and not funny at the same time. ‘ _ You met your soulmate. Keith, that's amazin-!’ _

 

Keith cuts him off by holding up a hand,  considering how to express this. Never thought he would have to. Clumsily, he makes the sign for mutual, two Ys seesawing between him and Shiro, negating the word with a sharp shake of the head.

 

“Unrequited,” Shiro translates. 

 

It's not the word that gets Keith, but the look. The small pits of Shiro's eyes, the just barely downturned lips, a canopy of tilted brows, Keith knows it's a shadow of his own expression. Keith knows that Shiro is taking on his pain. Rather he's ready to acknowledge that pain or not, it's still there and it will still affect Shiro. 

 

Because that's what families do. They inherit without bias. Just like Keith inherited his mom's sharp eyes and flighty nature. Just like he inherited his dad's musical aptitude and unresolved abandonment issues. Rather it's through blood or bonding, our feelings never belong just to us, not if we're lucky. 

 

“Come sit down,” he says. Keith is quickly guided to a chair. The one by the door where his backpack once sat. He falls into the seat and his elbows drop to his knees. Beneath his overgrown bangs, he peeks up at Shiro.

 

_ ‘Don't look at me like that.’  _

 

_ ‘Keith-’ _

 

_ ‘Stop.’  _

 

His mom's blood is strong in him. His dad didn't talk about her much, but Keith can tell it's true by the way he marks the exits of every room he enters. Fight or flight keeps a bag packed right at the tips of his fingers. He is always ready to flee every situation if necessary. Right now is no different, because he won't do this with Shiro. He's not ready for it. He's not ready to reduce years of wistful anticipation into platitudes and inspirational speeches.

 

_ ‘Let's go.’  _

 

Keith's eyes widen a fraction.  _ ‘What do you mean go? The restaurant-’ _

 

_ ‘Will be closed today. And don't argue with me. We both know a person can't work after undergoing immersive colorization.’  _

 

A part of Keith wants to fight back, if only on reflex, but he won't, not when his body is feeling much less prideful than his mind. 

 

‘ _ Fine,’  _ he signs, standing.  __

 

_ ‘Good. I was thinking take out. Chinese?’ _

 

Keith's mouth opens only to drop with the rest of his face. He feels empty. Purged of feelings. All he has left is honesty. 

 

_ ‘Whatever conversation you’re trying to have, can it wait? It's just-’  _ he signs, rubbing his  thumb against the hardened skin of his index finger.  _ ‘Later, okay?’  _

 

 _‘I know you better than you think I do,’_ Shiro signs back _. “General Tso's chicken now, talk later. Huh?’_

 

Shiro smiles at Keith, all brotherly and patient in a way that makes him feel guilty for ever expecting anything but the best from him. Keith forgets sometimes that, between the two of them, he's not the only one who makes boundaries for themselves. Shiro doesn't want to scare Keith. Shiro knows Keith’s a runner.

 

But Shiro doesn't care. He's as patient as Keith is stubborn, and they both know he can't run forever.

 

Keith picks up his bag. His smile is drained but genuine.  _ ‘Why do I feel as if I'm being lulled into a false sense of security?’  _

 

Shiro chuckles into his fist.  _ ‘Because you know me pretty well too.’ _

 

Quickly _ ,  _ refusing Keith's help, Shiro shuts down the store. Keith waits in the dining area with a pair of sunglasses that Shiro fished from his office. He doesn't put them on yet though, just stares into the still present stain of bubble tea. There's no need for them right now. Because here in this room, the colors are so dim that they might as well not be here at all.


End file.
